


been around the block with a broken spine

by cancerthecrabbo



Category: Jack Ryan (2018), Jack Ryan - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Episode 1, Episode: s01ep01 Pilot, Exhaustion, Hurt No Comfort, I love him, Jack just wants a shower, Loneliness, Missing Scene(s), Stab Wound, Whump, headache, pilot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 16:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16140740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancerthecrabbo/pseuds/cancerthecrabbo
Summary: It seems that holding a live grenade above his head with the intent to let it drop any second is enough to make him surrender to Greer in an instant.  He’s sick with frustration (as well as smoke inhalation) and so desperately in need of a shower.Set directly after Pilot.





	been around the block with a broken spine

**Author's Note:**

> i lubb john krasinski and boy howdy is jack ryan full of whumpy potentional :D

Right foot.  Stretch, pull, wince.  Nerves sparking.

 

Left foot.  Relief.

 

Right – stretch, a short stride, nerves lighting on fire.

 

Left.  The fire sputters out into manageable sparks.

 

His throat burns like a glowing rod, the heat radiant in a way no one can feel but him.  His jaw throbs with a vengeance – gritting his teeth against the pain isn’t even an option.  Blood fills his mouth but spitting hurts so it mostly just leaks out the side.  His already-bloody chin trembles with exhaustion, making the droplets of red-tinged sweat drop all over his shirt.  No matter; Jack’s shirt was ruined when he was sliced with a knife, so any additional stains are just salt on the wound.

 

Tired beyond words and temporarily too occupied with pain to be as angry as he will be later in the silence of his empty house, he declines the medical attention.  It’s not like his hoarse voice and knife wound are convincing anyone that he’s unscathed, but he knows that there are other men in need of care.

 

It seems that holding a live grenade above his head with the intent to let it drop any second is enough to make him surrender to Greer in an instant.  He’s sick with frustration (as well as smoke inhalation) and so desperately in need of a shower that he’d let Greer use his car to crush his bike without batting an eyelash if it meant getting home as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

The plane trip back is filled with thoughts of a steady, hot spray of water washing away the grime and self-loathing.  It’s never fun to come back to an empty home to be cold as he falls asleep and wake up near feverish, throat raw.  He can’t stand the thought of being debriefed, of spending one more second in the company of another human.  Despite the innate fear of loneliness, Jack would prefer the chill of isolation over the condescension and, frankly, the idea of having to interact with people after what happened in the base is revolting.

 

Greer doesn’t attempt to speak with him and if Jack cared even just a little bit more about social conventions, he might have tried to communicate his appreciation.  As it is, Jack’s eyes don’t even roam in Greer’s general direction; he elects to shut them against the pounding headache rattling his brain.  And it’s not like he forgot how the man nearly ran him over and then humiliated him all within the day they met. 

 

It’s safe to say Jack is in a foul mood.  He doesn’t give a shit – it’s like he physically can’t make himself care after the overwhelming wave of hate that surged over him as he watched Suleiman escape.  He’s left bare of any motivation but to get to his goddamn shower.

 

Touching down brings more frustration because he knows what’s coming.  He knows they’ll pretend to care; they’ll get a medic for him, and then wring him dry.  Gathering information is their one and only goal and Jack is chock-full of it.  He’s a tool for them to carry out their mission. 

 

* * *

 

 Jack and Greer paint a pretty picture of soot and blood walking down the pristine halls of the CIA.  Heads turn, obviously, since people don’t usually walk in wearing singed clothes and clumps of sand, and they’re making a mess wherever they walk.  He revels in the idea of the smell of gunpowder stinging people’s noses.  It’s also a treat to see people pale as he limps down the hall, stab wound unattended.  It makes him feel a little better about the ruined shirt.

 

The debrief goes about as well as Jack thought it would.  The officer in charge of gathering information is clinical and efficient.  Jack doesn’t bother to learn the man’s name and offers clipped answers.  Every second he spends in the building is another he isn’t in his pajamas.  The only thing keeping him from flipping off everyone who even glances in his general direction is the knowledge that there won’t be any traffic on the ride home because it’s 2:10 AM. 

 

The medic stitches up his stab wound in a sterile room, sympathetic but respectfully detached.  She dresses the wound and tells him to come back tomorrow or die of infection; apparently, she can tell what type of patient he is just by observing his silence.  The bruises will fade on their own and the flare-up of his old spinal injury can’t be fixed. 

 

He and Greer part ways silently.  Jack doesn’t have anything to say to him, though his apathy has overruled whatever petty feelings he was holding on to.  It’s not amicable by common standards but he’s pretty sure that after the debrief, he’s earned the man's respect. 

 

Driving home includes white-knuckling through the pain and constantly reminding himself that running red lights is illegal even in the dead of night.  _Maybe if I show the officer my stitches he’ll let me go_ , he thinks.  But no, the possibility of being held up when he’s so close to getting home and waiting for a ticket or being suspected of a crime is too risky.  He’s on the home stretch.

 

Unlocking his door is deeply relieving.  Closing it is more than just shutting a door, it’s closing his walls around himself.  Jack can relax in his home; it’s the only time he can let go.  He stumbles into his kitchen table when a wave of exhaustion washes over him and nearly takes his legs from under him.  Pressing a hand to his eyes, Jack breathes deeply to dispel the black spots spreading across his vision.  He sighs shakily and lets himself unravel for a second.

 

Shades of blue and grey permeate his home.  His bare feet make no noise as he pads across the wood paneling.  Silence rings in his ears, harmonizing with his own pulse, entirely unpleasant.  Reaching his bathroom is devastating – finally, Jack has the time to register that he made it through the day and that he isn’t dead despite what happened.  He isn’t one to hold on to his masculinity like it’s a lifeline, he knows how toxic it can be, so he lets the emotions bubble up under the cover of the hot water.  He’s naked now of expectations, of tattered clothes, of bandages applied by a woman whose face he’s already forgotten.  The soap cuts through the muddy blood that had dried on his skin and for the first time in several hours, Jack can breathe.  Tears well up and mix with the water to be washed away as soon as they spill from his eyes.  As he lets himself process the emotions, his stomach feels less heavy, even though he’s hungry. 

 

Jack steps out of the shower feeling renewed and deeply tired.  His bed beckons him.  The only thing left to do is put on his pajamas.  Pulling out a pair of boxers and his softest sweatpants, he elects to sleep shirtless given the difficulty he would have raising his arms high enough. 

 

The mattress dips under him.  The sheets are chilled from his absence.  Water drips from his hair down his back, drops pooling in the hollow of his collarbones.  Jack’s head hangs, free of a headache, thanks to the pills he downed.  A light rain has started up outside; he really couldn’t have asked for a better night.  Greer told him to come in late tomorrow, so he will, but just because he gets a fair amount of time to sleep doesn’t mean he’ll actually be able to go the whole night uninterrupted.  He can hope all he wants but the nightmares come regardless of his wishes.

 

Jack starts the metronome and lays down, pulling the soft sheets up to his chin and staring out at the pitter patter of the raindrops on his window, eyelids sliding shut within a minute.


End file.
